


A Beast For Thee

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Smut, M/M, PWTVPA (Porn With Thinly Veiled Political Allegory, Pining, Racoon Bucky, as per frickin' usual, but it's mutual, ish, shrinkyclinks, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: Love, in some way you chooseGod's plan can easily bruiseOne bone and blood mass we fuseAnd I can beA beast for thee-Bonnie 'Prince" BillieA Beast For Thee





	1. April

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Riakomai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riakomai/gifts).



> Written for the lovely, talented, beautiful Ria. I adore you!
> 
> This was supposed to be silly. It was supposed to be a fun break from writing Space Pirates.  
> Instead it's about what happens when you start to see people as things.
> 
> With special thanks to Krycekasks for... well. Everything

Steve damn near has a heart attack when he prises open the dumpster around the back of his apartment building and drops a sack of trash on a racoon.  
He lets out a yell as the racoon bursts out of the dumpster, banana peels and empty ramen wrappers clinging to it’s threadbare jacket. It screams at him and clambers out of the dumpster, trailing plastic and a mouldy bouquet of flowers. It loses its grip, falling with a yelp and landing awkwardly, letting out a soft groan as it curls its matted tail around itself.  
Steve coughs and clutches the side of the dumpster. He can’t catch his breath, his chest tight, every breath shallow and painful. He looks down at the yellowing roses scattered on the sidewalk.  
_Aw fuck_.  
Steve pats at his pockets _where the fuck is my inhaler?_ He forces himself to breathe slowly and go through his pockets one by one, leaning back against the dumpster as he checks and rechecks. No, he must have left it upstairs.  
The racoon sits up, it’s pointed ears flat against its head as it rubs its shoulder. It stares as Steve slides to the ground, and moves into a crouch, edging closer, it’s ears pricked forward.  
Steve watches it approach. “Hey,” he wheezes. “Left my… inhaler upstairs. Can you get help?”  
The racoon edges a little closer, and reaches out a hand to tap at his paint-spattered khakis.  
“I’ve not got any food,” Steve coughs, he doesn’t like the rattling in his chest.  
The racoon darts forward and gives him a quick shove before retreating.  
Steve coughs, everything getting fuzzy around the edges. He plucks at the medical alert bracelet at his wrist, and hopes someone finds him before the world turns black.

_As long as there have been humans, there have been hybrids._ _The Ancient Egyptians worshipped them as gods once. The Aztecs sacrificed enemies in their honour. Then with the rise of Christianity they became associated with Witchcraft and Devil worship. Tortured and hanged for their perceived crimes, their numbers dwindled to almost nothing._  
_Humans with no genealogical history of hybridation can produce hybrid children. There was no genetic marker, no virus, no chemical compound to explain it._  
_Fairies have long been one popular theory, Gypsy curses another. Old wives tales grew around hybrids, tangled like weeds. The bark of a dog caused it. Not enough folic acid. If the father has been led astray by another woman. If the mother has nightmares._  
_In India the birth of a hybrid is cause for celebration, a God returned to earth, but elsewhere there is an extensive black market trade in hybrid bones and artefacts, for muti purposes in South Africa, ground down and used in Chinese medicine, on display in trophy cabinets and in Natural History museums alongside the extinct Dodo and Thylacine._  
_In the civilised west, foetal abnormality scans given at 20 weeks check for spina bifida, cardiac abnormalities, skeletal dysplasia and tails. Terminations are not compulsory, but strongly advised._  
_\- Introduction_  
_A History of Hybrids by Dr Bruce Banner_  
_International Journal of Sociology and Anthropology_

Steve coughs around the inhaler, pushing it away and sitting up. A glass of water is pushed into his hands and he takes a sip, slowly coming to his senses.  
He’s sat on his couch. In his apartment. And not dead in a gutter. The floor around his feet is littered with his meds, orange plastic bottles and pill packets and inhalers scattered everywhere. In the middle of the chaos is the racoon from the dumpster, crouched at his feet and watching as Steve slowly sips his water.  
It holds up his inhaler, ears flat against it’s head.  
Steve hesitates, his glass halfway to his lips. He’s only ever seen one hybrid up close before, back when his Ma was still alive. There was a rabbit that used to live in Prospect park and they’d sometimes see her when walking home from school. They didn’t have much, but Ma would always leave her something, food or water that she carried in her purse. Until one day she wasn’t there anymore.  
Steve had liked her. Liked her soft ears and her nervous smile.

The racoon watches him, unblinking. It’s ears twitching. It’s dark hair is greasy and tangled. The markings around its eyes make them look startlingly blue.  
“You brought me up here?” Steve asks, his voice sore and grating.  
The racoon shifts uncomfortably, then starts picking up his meds off the floor, holding them up to him.  
“No, I don’t need anything. I just need rest. Thanks.”  
The racoon gets to its feet and shuffles over to the bathroom. Steve is used to feeling small, being 5’4” in his socks, but the racoon is surprisingly tall. He watches it carefully put everything back in the cabinet, nimble fingers sliding pill packets back into their cardboard cases.  
Steve gets to his feet and wobbles a little, and the racoon is in front of him again, reaching out to take his arm before he topples over.  
“I’m okay,” Steve insists. “I’m gonna lie down for a while.”  
The racoon looks doubtful, but helps him towards the bedroom, bending down to take off his shoes and lift his legs onto the bed.  
“There’s food in the fridge if you want,” Steve lets himself be pushed down onto the pillows. “Well, there’s half a jar of mustard. Um. Ramen? You like ramen?”  
The racoon pulls the rumpled blanket out from under him and covers him over.  
“Steve. I’m Steve, by the way.”  
The racoon snorts and pats him on the shoulder, and Steve falls into a deep sleep.

Steve wakes with a start. He’s too warm, lying fully clothed and covered with a blanket. He rolls over, kicking off the covers and climbing out of bed, and it takes a minute for events to catch up with him.  
_Oh._  
He slowly pushes open the bedroom door and peeks into the living room. In the corner, surrounded by canvases and boxes of paint tubes, sits the racoon. It’s leaning against the bookcase, a battered copy of William Faulkner _As I lay dying_ open in it’s hands. Steve watches as it thumbs the top of the page, eyes flicking across the dense text. It turns the page, smooths it down with a finger and continues reading.  
It’s _reading_.  
Then the smell hits him. Garbage and stale sweat and something else, something earthy and resinous. Steve coughs and the racoon starts, it’s tail bushing up as it scrambles up the bookcase with surprising speed and grace, wedging itself in the gap between the top of the unit and the ceiling.  
“It’s okay,” Steve calls out. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”  
The racoon doesn’t move, so Steve goes into the bathroom to take his meds and use the toilet, washing his hands before going into the kitchen.  
There’s a half empty jar of mustard and a not quite expired carton of milk in the fridge. Steve frowns and goes through his cupboards, pulling out two packets of noodles and putting a pan of water on the stove. He rips open the packets and dumps them in the water, covering them with a lid and fetching two bowls from the cupboard. He peeks in the living room and sees the racoon is still wedged on top of the bookcase, but at least hasn’t knocked anything over or damaged his canvases.  
He goes back to the noodles, checking that they’re cooked before dividing them between the two bowls and grabbing a couple of forks from the drawer and taking them out to the living room.

“You want some noodles?” he calls, carefully placing the bowl on the floor by the books before retreating to the couch with his own bowlful.  
After Steve spends a minute quietly eating while flicking through the newspaper the racoon slowly climbs down and sits on the floor, pulling the bowl into its lap. Steve watches out of the corner of his eye as the racoon picks up the fork and jabs it into the bowl, shoving noodles into its mouth. Under the layers of ragged clothing Steve can see the sharp line of its collarbone.  
Steve sets down his empty bowl and runs his thumb over his medical alert bracelet, over the list of conditions and known allergies. The blank space where an emergency contact would be. His name and address.  
“You knew what to do,” Steve murmurs thoughtfully.  
The racoon glances up at him, lifting the bowl up to its lips and swallowing down the last of the broth before wiping its mouth with its sleeve.  
Steve rubs his fingers on his chin. He’d heard of some hybrids being smart, canids usually ended up in the military, or trained to be service animals. There was a waiting list though, and they were beyond what Steve could ever afford.  
But.  
Steve hums to himself. He’d never heard of anyone having a racoon as a service animal, and if it had been someone’s pet, they obviously didn’t take care of it.  
“Um. Do you have an owner?” Steve asks.  
The racoon flinches, then tugs at a strand of its dark hair. It shakes its head.  
“Okay. Um. Would you like one?” Steve flushes as the racoon stares at him. “Just. I get sick. A lot. And it’s hard for me to do stuff. I can’t afford a… well. I can’t afford much of anything. But if you stay you’ll get food and a warm place to sleep.” Steve bites his lip. “You’d just need to help me out sometimes is all.”  
The racoon stares at the floor for a moment, considering. Then slowly gets to its feet and pads over to where Steve is sitting. It takes the bowl out of his unresisting hands and carries it into the kitchen, placing it in the sink.  
“Is that a yes?” Steve asks, trying not to grin.  
The racoon nods pensively, but gives him a small smile.  
“Okay. Great. That’s great. We can go get you licensed tomorrow.” Steve frowns. “First you need a bath.”

The racoon doesn’t make a fuss while Steve runs a bath, and goes back to reading it's book. Steve checks that the water isn’t too hot before going to fetch it.  
“C’mon,” he calls out. “Bath.”  
The racoon doesn’t move, frozen in place in the living room. Steve fights the urge to sigh, and walks over to catch it by the cuff of one ragged sleeve.  
“You need a bath. C’mon,” he gives gentle tug.  
The racoon follows him into the bathroom, ears flattened against its scalp, tail limp.  
“You’ve gotta to get undressed,” Steve explains as the racoon crosses its arms over its chest.  
“Shoes first,” Steve adds.  
The racoon is wearing battered old trainers, worn through in places. Its big toe pokes through a hole in the top of one. After a long silence the racoon grudgingly kicks them off.  
Steve tugs off it’s jacket, carefully stripping off the layers of worn, grime crusted clothes while the racoon shivers, it’s tail bristling, the stained sweatpants coming off last.

The racoon is painfully thin, its skin pale and marred with purpling bruises and bites. Aside from the ears, eye markings and tail, it looks almost human, even with the several days growth of beard. Steve doesn’t let his eyes drop any lower, offering an arm in support while it climbs into the bath and crouches down.  
“Sit,” Steve instructs, kneeling down beside the bath and picking up a bar of soap.  
The racoon shifts, curling its sodden tail around its waist and drawing its knees up to its chin. It’s ears flat, its mouth drawn down.  
“C’mon, it’s only a bath,” Steve says with a smile. “You’ll feel better, I promise.”  
The racoon gives him a half hearted glare and Steve chuckles, dipping the soap into the water and scrubbing it between his hands to work up a lather. He washes the racoons back, wary of the bruises and scabs that cover its skin, fretting quietly over the stark ribs and the way it's skin is drawn taut over it's scapula. He gives it the soap to use while he fetches the shampoo.  
The racoon goes quiet and still while Steve soaps up its hair, keeping clear of the ears and easing the tangles loose with his fingers. He combs his fingers through its thick, dark hair while the racoon hums happily.  
Steve rubs a thumb over the scruffy beard. “You okay with losing this?”  
The racoon nods warily, and Steve fetches his razor and shaving foam. He squirts a little foam into the palm of his hand and the racoon flinches.  
“It’s okay, it’s just soap. See?” he squirts a little more foam and holds the canister out to the racoon, who takes it warily, turning it around in its hands.  
Steve rubs the soap into its beard, holding out his hand for more, which the racoon dutifully squirts into his hand.  
“I need you to keep still, okay?”  
The racoon nods and Steve runs the razor slowly down its cheek, rinsing it off in the bath before drawing another stripe through the foam. The racoon doesn’t move a muscle, eyes wide as Steve scrapes the razor along it’s jaw, lifting it’s chin to do its vulnerable throat.  
“There,” Steve says finally, setting the razor on the edge of the bath. “All done.”  
He wipes off the last traces of soap with a face cloth.  
“I need to call you something,” Steve is pretty sure that its hair is as clean as it's going to get, but he keeps running his fingers through it. “You got a name?”  
The racoon has its eyes closed, its head tilted back. “Hmm,” it rumbles. “Buch… Bucha… nan.”  
“Bucha-nan?” Steve repeats. “You mean Buchanan?”  
The racoon nods, leaning into Steve’s hand as he smoothes its hair off its face.  
“Okay. How about I call you Bucky?”  
The racoon opens its eyes, blue like the sea, and smiles, displaying sharp white teeth. “Bucky.”

Steve unplugs the bath and fetches a towel, rubbing Bucky’s shoulders while it shakes its head. _He_ , Steve's thoughts unhelpfully supply. _Definitely a he_.  
Without the scruffy beard Steve can finally get a good look at the raccoon's face. A strong jaw, defined cheekbones, a cleft chin. Handsome in an old fashioned way. Steve has a terrible, fierce urge to paint him.  
“Head down, I can’t reach you up there,” Steve grouses.  
Bucky smirks at him, but lowers his head and lets Steve towel his hair dry, ears flickering.  
Steve drapes the towel over Bucky’s shoulders, because he’s not even slightly ready to wrap it around the area that needs covering.  
“Clothes,” he mutters. “I’ll find you some clothes.”  
He reverses out the bathroom, knocking over a stack of canvases leaning by the door. He swears under his breath and bends down to pick them up again, but only manages to make it worse, the frames sliding out of his grip.  
Bucky comes out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his painfully narrow waist. He crouches down to rescue the escaping pictures, pausing to look at each one as he leans them back against the wall.  
“These are mine,” Steve explains. “I’m an artist. I mean… well. I don’t make much but…”  
Bucky flashes him a smile, displaying sharp teeth, and arranges the paintings with exaggerated care.  
“I could do you. I mean, a picture of you. Um.” Steve flushes and covers his face with his hands. “If that’s okay? You could sit for me.”  
Bucky’s smile widens.  
“Um. Clothes,” Steve resists the urge to punch himself in the face and scurries off to the bedroom.  
He rummages through his wardrobe looking for something that might fit, quietly berating himself for getting so wound up at the sight of a naked body. What the hell was wrong with him?  
He finds a pair of sweatpants that should fit, along with a t-shirt he’d been given that was far too big for him. Despite being too thin Bucky was broad shouldered and. No. Not thinking about that.

Steve takes the fresh clothes out to Bucky and gives leaves him to get changed in private while he puts his old clothes in a rubbish bag. The shoes have to stay until he can get some new ones, or at least some less old ones. He fetches a spare blanket and one of his pillows, spreading them out on the couch when Bucky is dressed.  
“You okay with the couch?”  
Bucky nods, droplets of water from his damp hair soaking into his t-shirt. Steve shifts from foot to foot, nervous.  
“Will you still be here when I wake up?” he asks quietly.  
Bucky frowns at him and nods again, more emphatically this time.  
“Because it’s okay, you know? You don’t have to -”  
Bucky reaches forward and takes the spare pillow out of Steve’s hands, slow and careful. He hugs the pillow to his chest with a pointed glare that makes a laugh burst out of Steve’s chest.  
“Sorry,” he chuckles. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just…”  
Bucky steps past him and positions the pillow on the couch. Steve goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, peeking out to check on Bucky, wrapped up in the blanket with his book. Steve turns off the bathroom light and comes out to say goodnight.  
“I’m going to bed,” he announces.  
Bucky looks up expectantly, a finger marking where he is in his book.  
“If you need the bathroom, leave the door open? It’s kind of broken, you don’t wanna get stuck in there.” Bucky nods. “Uh. If you need water, don’t let the tap run in the kitchen. The drain’s busted.”  
Bucky doesn’t respond, so Steve pads over to the bedroom.  
“The landlord says he’ll get onto it. But,” he shrugs. “Place is cheap.”  
“Okay,” Bucky murmurs finally.  
“Alright. See you in the morning?”  
Steve gets undressed and climbs into bed, lulled to sleep by the soft sounds of movement and the slow turning of pages.

Steve wakes up early, and stumbles out into the living room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  
He hesitates, half expecting to find it empty, the racoon - Bucky - long gone.  
He shuffles over to the couch, and his heart skips a beat.  
Bucky is curled up in a ball, his tail curled around him, the blanket knocked to the floor in the night. His features are softened with sleep, dark eyelashes fanned across his cheeks.  
The word _beautiful_ floats through Steve’s thoughts, and he has a sudden urge to brush his fingertips across the dark markings around Bucky’s eyes. To push a hand through his hair and…  
Bucky’s eyes flick open and Steve manages a weak smile. “Hey.”  
Bucky closes his eyes again and stretches like a cat, and Steve has to scurry off to the kitchen and put the kettle on.  
“You want coffee?” he calls out as Bucky gets up and pads to the bathroom, leaving the door open.

When Bucky doesn’t reappear immediately after the sound of the toilet flushing, Steve peers into the bathroom, only to find him carefully reading through all Steve’s medication. He leaves the racoon to it, and finishes making coffee.  
Bucky reappears with a handful of pills, and hands them over.  
Steve holds the first one up. “You know what this is for?”  
Bucky nods, and after a moment mutters. “Blood.”  
“Yeah, I’ve got high blood pressure.” He swallows it and holds up another pill. “This one?”  
“Pain,” Bucky answers a little faster.  
Steve nods. “For my scoliosis. Uh. Twisted spine.” He bites his lip. “I got a lot wrong with me.”  
Bucky pauses, then reaches out and pokes him firmly in the ribs.  
“Ow,” Steve recoils, rubbing his side. “Jerk.”  
Bucky grins at him, displaying his pointed teeth, and jabs at him again.  
“Hey!” Steve skitters out of reach. “Alright, fine. I’m a perfect little sunbeam, stop poking me!”  
Bucky sniggers, and Steve hands over a cup of coffee, fighting back a smile. “You need milk or sugar?”  
Bucky shakes his head, and goes back to the couch, climbing over the back and dropping into his nest without spilling any. Steve follows after, sitting carefully on the arm of the couch. He puts down his coffee and grabs a sketchbook and pencil from the coffee table, turns to a fresh page and starts to draw.  
He works quickly, lines and shapes forming on the page. The curve of a jaw. Fingers wrapped around a mug. Full lips, curled up at the corner.  
Bucky clears his throat and Steve glances up. “What?” Bucky points to the clock hanging from the wall. “Shit!”  
Steve drops the notebook on the table. “Alright, I’m gonna go get dressed, then we head out, yeah?”  
Bucky nods, and Steve realises he had been holding his position with an empty cup.  
“You were… Thanks.” he blurts out before dashing to the bedroom, nearly breaking his neck in a rush to put on his clothes.  
He hears Bucky puttering around and washing the dishes, and it makes his heart clench, sweet and painful.  
He gathers up his keys and wallet, shoving them into his pockets before heading back out to the living room, where Bucky is pulling on his old shoes.  
“We’ll go to Goodwill and see about getting you some new ones later, yeah?”  
Bucky nods, but keeps his head down.  
“You nervous? It’s okay. We just go down to the clerk's office, they check you over and we fill out a form.”  
Bucky bites his lip, but doesn’t argue.  
“You warm enough?”  
Bucky gives him a crooked little smile that Steve can’t help but return. He picks up the bag of old clothes.  
“Okay, let’s go.”

Bucky insists on dropping the bag in the dumpster, and since he can actually reach without going onto his tiptoes, Steve lets him.  
They walk side by side down the street, Bucky keeping close to Steve’s side, his ears drawn back for the half hour it takes to get to the clerk’s office.  
Despite managing to arrive just after opening there is still a queue at reception. Bucky fidgets while they wait in line and Steve murmurs reassurance to him until they finally reach the front.  
The woman at the desk is small and dark haired with a brittle smile and a name badge that reads Maria. She raises her eyebrows at the sight of Bucky, and Steve pulls himself up to his full height.  
“I’m here to register a service animal.” The word animal feels strange in his mouth. Wrong.  
Maria takes his details and gives him a form to fill out before sending them off to a waiting room. The walls are lined with hard plastic chairs and the flickering striplights give Steve a headache.  
He sits down, and Bucky drops into the seat next to him, his ears flat against his skull. He grips the end of his tail in both hands, smoothing down the banded fur.  
Steve fills out his paperwork. Name, age, medical conditions all copied out neatly while Bucky lets out the occasional quiet whine. 

They’re called into into an examination room by a man in a white coat who doesn’t even offer his name. He takes Steve’s paperwork without making eye contact and sits down at a computer, taking occasional glances at the forms while he types Steve’s details into the system.  
Bucky wrings his tail, making distressed little chitterings under his breath.  
“On the scales,” the man orders, still sat in front of the terminal.  
Bucky gives Steve a nervous look, his ears flickering, but steps onto the flat electric scale on the floor by the desk. The man makes a note, and waves Bucky over to the wall where a height chart is taped up.  
“Five eleven,” the man mutters. “Underweight.”  
He marks the detail down, then pulls a torch out of his pocket.  
Before Steve can make a sound he pushes Bucky up against the wall and flashes the light into his eyes. “Pupils responsive,” he mutters, then pockets his torch and jams both thumbs into the corners of Bucky’s mouth, forcing his jaws open.  
“Hey!” Steve snaps, taking a step forward.  
The man ignores him, turning Bucky’s head from side to side. He pulls his thumbs away and grabs Bucky by the hair, tugging at the strands while Bucky’s increasingly panicked chittering gets louder.  
“Get off him,” Steve shoves his way between them, putting both fists up.  
The man snorts and takes a step back. “Fleas,” he says before turning back to his computer and picking up a hand held scanner.  
Steve rubs his hands up and down Bucky’s arms, murmuring to him gently. Bucky sniffs, his shoulders hunched, and recoils when the man approaches with his scanner.  
“I’m not expecting anything, but best to check,” he says, waving the scanner over the nape of Bucky’s neck and checking the reading. “Nope. Not previously registered.” He gives Steve a nasty smile. “Lucky you.”  
Steve glares at him before turning back to Bucky. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he whispers. Bucky shivers, his head down, a low, sustained whine in the back of his throat.  
Steve is so busy fretting over him that he doesn’t notice the man coming over with a syringe until he’s grabbed Bucky by the back of the head and forced it down, exposing his neck. He slides the needle under the skin and depresses the plunger.  
“Identification chip,” he says, pulling out the needle. “A subdermal implant. Now if it gets lost or runs away, it can be scanned, the details come up on the database and it can be returned.”  
Bucky curls up and buries his face in Steve’s shoulder, shaking hands gripping at his jacket.  
“Shh,” Steve murmurs, stroking fingers through his hair. “It’s okay.”  
There is a thin trickle of blood from the puncture wound.  
He turns to glare at the man finishing up his paperwork. “Are we done here?’  
The man hands over a sheet of paper. “Yeah, we’re done.”  
Steve snatches it out of his hand and leads Bucky, still shivering and making soft keening noises, back to the waiting room.

They sit on the hard plastic chairs, Bucky still clinging to Steve’s jacket while he runs his fingers through the racoons hair.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs, scratching the soft fur of his ear.  
Bucky doesn’t answer, just leans into the touch and whines again.  
They are called into another room, where a woman sat at a desk tells Steve to take a seat. There is only one chair, and Steve looks around for another one before Bucky nudges him towards the single chair and sits on the floor. He rests his chin on Steve’s knee, butting against his hand until Steve gets the message and starts stroking his hair.  
“A racoon,” the woman mutters, taking Steve’s offered papers. “Unusual.”  
Steve doesn’t answer. He feels deeply unsettled, having watched someone handle Bucky like a dumb creature, seeing him sitting on the floor like a dog. It twists something in his gut.  
The woman makes a few marks on the papers. “Spayed or neutered?”  
Steve swallows the urge to scream. Or vomit. He can’t tell.  
“No.”  
“Age?”  
He glances at Bucky. “Late twenties? Early thirties?”  
The woman hums. “You’ll get the license within thirty working days. It will come with a tag that needs to be worn at all times,” she glances up. “So you’ll need a collar.”  
“He’s not wearing a collar,” Steve snaps.  
The woman shrugs. “Just make sure it’s wearing a tag. There are poachers, so don’t let it go wandering off on it’s own.”  
Steve takes a deep breath. “He. His name is Bucky.”  
“That’ll be thirty four dollars,” the woman stamps the paperwork.  
Steve fumbles in his coat for his wallet and counts out the money, pushing it across the desk. The woman writes him a receipt and hands over a temporary tag, a square of plastic with his license number written in biro.  
“It needs to wear that at all times.”  
Steve snatches up the tag and rises from his chair.  
“C’mon, Buck,” he mutters. “Let's get out of here.”

They walk down the street, side by side. It’s past lunchtime, half the day spent in hard plastic chairs in headache-inducing waiting rooms, but Steve’s stomach churns at the thought of food.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve says quietly. I shouldn’t have let them treat you like that.”  
Bucky shakes his head and gives Steve the lightest little tap to the ribs.  
“I’m serious, Buck. I just…” he shakes his head. “It all happened so damn fast, I never thought…”  
“It’s okay,” Bucky murmurs, his voice a low rasp.  
“No,” Steve insists. “It ain’t. And it won’t happen again.”  
Bucky looks unconvinced, but gives him a lopsided little smile. “Okay.”

Bucky doesn’t like Goodwill. It’s cramped and crowded and full of strange odours. He presses up against Steve’s back, the ears that had been slowly straightening up crooked at odd angles.  
“Come on,” Steve says softly, sliding his hand into Bucky’s and tugging, leading the way to the row of bookshelves along one wall of the store.  
“You can have one book, okay?” Steve releases his grip. “Don’t go wandering off.”  
Bucky nods, then holds up a hand, gesturing for Steve to wait. He pulls off one of his trainers and holds it out.  
“What’s this for?” Steve asks, frowning.  
Bucky rolls his eyes and goes off to look through the books.  
Steve is looking through the mens coats rail when he realises that he needs Bucky’s shoe size. That’s what the trainer is for.  
It’s an odd, disorienting realisation. _He’s smarter than me_. The thought sits with him, leaden and immovable. Not because Steve thinks he's particularly smart, he was an average student in school. But yesterday Bucky was eating out of a dumpster. He can't walk down the street without an ID tag claiming him as someone else's property.  
Steve picks out a light jacket that he thinks will fit. A long sleeved t-shirt. A pair of sweats. He wanders over to the footwear in a daze, and picks out a scuffed pair of trainers. He doesn’t pay much attention to the colour, just the price and condition.  
He takes his items back to the bookcase, and sees Bucky sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a battered paperback.  
“That the one you want?” Steve asks.  
Bucky shakes his head and holds up a copy of _Treasure Island._ Steve feels a rush of affection for him, the way his ears are pricked forward attentively, his tail curled loosely in his lap.  
“If you try these on and let me know if they fit, you can get both,” he offers.  
Bucky scrambles to his feet and starts pulling his t-shirt off.  
“Woah, stop,” Steve laughs. “Changing room.”  
He points to the booth by the menswear, and Bucky grabs the bundle of clothes and dashes off. Steve bends down to pick up his abandoned book. _A brief history of time_. He swallows down the stone lodged in his throat, and follows Bucky to the changing room.

The shirt fits, it’s a little loose, but the dark red colour suits him. The jacket is too small, but they find another one, charcoal grey and fleece lined, that is baggy but comfortable, and not so long that it interferes with his tail. Steve takes the items to the till, counting out his remaining money and quietly fretting about how to make what’s left stretch to the end of the month.  
The girl at the till seems to find Bucky adorable, and keeps trying to persuade Steve to buy him a hat. She reaches up and sits a beret on his head, laughing when it makes his ears lopsided. Steve wants to scream, to punch things, but instead removes the hat and places it on the counter with a quiet ‘no thank you’.  
The girl packs the items into a bag, except for the trainers, which Bucky puts on right away, and hands them over to Bucky. She pats him on the head and calls him cute. It takes a moment for Steve to work out what the ugly sensation coiled in his stomach is. 

They walk home via a bodega round the corner from Steve’s apartment. He expects Bucky to react in the same was as he did in Goodwill, but as soon as they walk through the doors a weight seems to lift from his shoulders.  
Steve counts out what’s left of his money as he follows Bucky and wonders how long they can get by on ramen.  
Luis, the over-enthusiastic owner looks up from his book and grins broadly.  
“Hey, there’s my _mapache_! Where you been, brah? I was starting to think animal control had bagged you or somethin’.”  
Steve glances up and sees Bucky smile awkwardly and shake his head.  
“And look at you all spruced up and looking fine,” Luis beckons Bucky closer. “You clean up well, mapache. Look at that handsome face.”  
Bucky snorts and kicks his heels, looking thoroughly embarrassed, and Steve feels jealousy writhe in his guts.  
“You know each other?” Steve asks, a little louder than he intended.  
Luis doesn’t take offence. “This _bandido_? Caught him going through my trash a while back. Poor guy. Couldn’t take him home on account of my Mama, she got allergies. If she gets near a cat her eyes like puff up, some serious John Carpenter shit, y’know?” Luis looks between the two of them. “Oh, shit! Mapache, you get yourself a place to stay?” Luis turns to Steve, “You took him in? That’s real decent of you, brah.”  
Steve flushes and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, got him registered today.”  
Bucky shoves his hands in his jacket pockets while Luis’ face lights up.  
“Legit? Aw, man. I’m so happy for you guys right now. Mapache, you gonna take good care of this guy, right?”  
Bucky nods sheepishly while Steve picks up a basket from the entrance and starts counting packets of noodles out. He adds a bag of apples and a jar of coffee before taking them up to the counter.  
Luis bags up the groceries while he tells Bucky about the Carl Sagan book he’s reading, and watches Steve empty out his pockets and count out his change.  
“You know I got some stuff I was gonna throw out, expired and shit. Still good, but can’t sell it no more.”  
Steve shakes his head. “We’re fine, thanks.”  
“Aw, c’mon man. It’s totally fine, I swear. If I throw it out it’s just going to landfill y’know? And that shit is bad for the environment, groundwater contamination and all that methane in the atmosphere…”  
Bucky huffs and gives Steve a gentle nudge in the ribs. Steve ignores him for as long as he can, biting the inside of his cheek while Bucky stares at him, a hint of a smile in his eyes.  
“Fine,” Steve gives in. “Just a few things.”  
Luis whoops and fills a second bag with dented cans and dried goods hidden behind the counter.  
“You guys have saved me from some seriously weird dinners,” Luis confides as he hands the bags over.  
Bucky pointedly takes them before Steve can, lifting his chin and giving him a defiant little smile.  
“Okay,” Steve mutters, biting back a grin. “Thank you Luis.”  
“No problem, man. And hey, mapache? I’m serious about Sagan, dude knows his shit.”  
Bucky nods, and follows Steve out of the store.  
They walk side by side down the street, jostling each other as they go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring AMAZING art by [Riakomai](http://riakomai.tumblr.com)


	2. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God help the beast in me  
> -Johnny Cash

Steve straightens up, pressing his left hand to the small of his back and rolling his shoulders. He takes a step back to look at his work, tilting his head to one side.  
It’s not finished, but he’s finally getting somewhere. A night time scene of a taxi cab in the rain, the wet street reflecting the brightly lit stores and streetlights and the vivid yellow car in a hazy smear of colour.  
Steve rinses out his brush and loads it with paint, and bends down to work.  
The front door key rattles in the lock and opens, and Bucky comes ambling in, the mornings post shoved between his teeth. He kicks off his shoes and comes padding over to Steve barefoot in his faded jeans and white vest.  
Bucky rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder until he puts down his brush and takes the post from between his pointed teeth.  
“Cute,” Steve chuckles. “You wanna fetch my slippers as well?”  
Bucky snorts and picks up his book from the coffee table before climbing onto the couch.  
Steve rifles through the mail, bills, promotional material for art events and junk. Tucked in amongst them is an envelope with a return address from the Clerk’s office  
“Bucky!”  
He tears open the envelope as Bucky comes to join him, book abandoned on the couch. Inside is a paper copy of his license.  
Steve checks the details and snorts. “Five weeks to get this. Can you believe it?”  
He shakes the envelope and a small, silver disc stamped with Bucky’s registration number and Steve’s contact details falls out.  
He holds the disc up for Bucky to take. “I guess that makes us official.”  
Bucky pinches the disc between thumb and forefinger, squinting at the tiny writing.  
Steve watches him try to read the inscription, and quietly marvels at the change in them both. His health has been slowly improving, and his work is really starting to get noticed. And Bucky. Steve bites his lip. Bucky isn't the bruised, underweight, terrified creature that carried Steve up to his apartment. He’s gained weight, all lean muscle and easy grace that makes something sharp embedded under Steve’s ribs twist.  
Steve has watched him become more than beautiful, more than strong over the last month, he’s watched a bright mind sharpen. Watched Bucky figure out how to fix the sink, how to rehang the bathroom door, how to price up Steve’s commission work. Steve is pretty sure that, come the new year, Bucky will probably insist on doing his taxes.  
That he needs to be the registered property of someone is a thorn that prickles Steve’s insides.

Steve goes into his bedroom and rummages around in his sock drawer. He finds the slim box of his mother's and carefully opens it.  
The contents are sparse; his parents wedding rings, a rosary, a claddagh ring and a long, thin chain with a tarnished disc dangling from it. He wraps the chain around his wrist and closes the box, tucking it away safely in the drawer before going back out to the living room.  
“Here,” he unclasps the fastening and takes the tag from Bucky, threading it onto the chain and holding it up.  
“It’s a St Christopher. Helps you find your way home.”  
Bucky’s ears flick forward as he bows his head and Steve reaches up to fasten the chain around his neck, keeping perfectly still as Steve fumbles with the clasp. He tugs the chain straight so the tag and medallion sit neatly together at the base of Bucky’s throat, his hands lingering against warm skin a little too long before he pulls them away.  
Bucky lets out a soft little hum and presses their foreheads together, pushing gently before straightening up and giving Steve a broad, bright grin.  
“Go on,” Steve flusters, waving Bucky away.  
He turns back to his canvas and loads his brush with paint, working on the halos of light around the streetlamps while Bucky curls up on the couch with his book, his fingers curled loosely around the ID tag. 

Steve can’t focus, throwing glances at Bucky as he reads. Bucky must smell the nerves on his because he sighs and closes the book.  
“Steve?” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp.  
“I was thinking,” Steve blurts out. Bucky turns to look at him, his eyebrow raised.  
Steve takes a deep breath and hopes that he’s not about to screw everything up.  
“I was thinking maybe we could see about getting your birth certificate.” The words come out in a rush, and it takes Bucky a moment to parse them. “I mean, it’s not that hard to track them down. You know how many racoon hybrids there are? Three. And I mean ever. So when I called the Vital Records Office, it was easy to track you down.”  
Bucky’s ears flatten, almost disappearing into his hair. His tail bristles.  
Steve holds up a placating hand. “I’m not. I’ve not been prying. I just figured you’d been born in New York and called.” Bucky sinks down into the couch, curling up like a coiled spring. “It’s fifteen dollars, you can order it online, you get it the next day.”  
Bucky growls, low and rumbling deep in his chest.  
“It’s just… You need a birth certificate to get a High School Diploma.”  
The growl stops suddenly, and Steve can’t seem to keep his stupid mouth shut.  
“You can do it online, they send you coursework and textbooks, you just need a birth certificate. There’s nothing in the rules about hybrids being exempt, either, and you wouldn’t have to go to classes.” Steve hesitates. Bucky hasn’t moved or made a sound. “And there’s a payment plan, so we can afford it.”  
Bucky’s head snaps up. “We?” he mutters.  
Steve fidgets with his paintbrush. “Yeah. We.”  
Bucky leaps over the arm of the couch, landing in a crouch. He slowly straightens up and stalks towards Steve, who takes a step back and raises his paintbrush defensively.  
“It was just an idea-”  
Whatever else he might have wanted to say gets muffled as Bucky wraps both arms around him and crushes him in a hug. Steve lets out a yelp as Bucky lifts him off his feet, kicking futilely and holding his paintbrush at arms length.  
“Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, his voice almost a purr.  
Steve pats him on the shoulder, squeezing the hard muscle under his hand.  
“Need to breathe, Buck.”  
Bucky sniffs and lets him go, patting him on the back a few times and retreating to the other side of the room. Steve sags with relief, and turns back to his painting.  
“So, we’ll get it sorted out later, yeah?”  
Bucky nods, prowling restlessly in little circles.

Steve dabs at his painting, working on the streetlights and the wet sheen on the taxi, half an eye on Bucky pacing back and forth. He circles the living room in silence for a while before sidling up to Steve and watches him for a while.  
In his defence, Bucky makes sure that the painting doesn’t get damaged when he darts forward and pokes Steve in the ribs.  
Steve yowls and takes a swipe at him, but Bucky dodges out of range, waiting for his next chance to strike.  
By the third jab, Steve gives up on getting any more work done, and brandishes his paintbrush at Bucky. “You want some of this, huh?” he mock threatens and points his brush, soaked in cadmium yellow, at the troublemaker. Bucky looks delighted, and launches himself at Steve, and the next thing he knows they’re on the ground wrestling each other. Bucky manages to grab Steve’s right wrist in a loose but unshakable hold, keeping the brush at a safe distance while he tickles mercilessly, mock-biting him by taking his paint splotched shirt between his teeth and tugging it.  
Steve shrieks and kicks, rolling them both across the floor while he calls Bucky everything from an asshole to a jerk, breathless with laughter.  
Bucky snags the collar of Steve’s shirt between his teeth and yanks it hard enough to pop a button. Steve lets out an indignant yelp and manages to wriggle out of Bucky’s grip long enough to paint a splodge of bright yellow on the tip of his nose. The racoon goes cross-eyed for a moment, then tackles Steve with renewed vigor, the brush skittering under the couch, leaving a yellow trail across the carpet.  
Bucky flips Steve onto his back, straddling his waist and pinning his wrists down either side of his head, and suddenly Steve is breathless for a whole other reason.  
Bucky bends down until their faces are almost touching and Steve swallows reflexively, his mouth dry. He doesn’t struggle, and Bucky closes the distance between them inch by inch.  
Bucky grins suddenly and presses his nose to Steve’s, smearing it with yellow before pulling back a little to admire his efforts.  
There is a pause, and Steve’s heart hammers in his chest as Bucky dips his head again, brushing their noses together, his breath ghosting over Steve’s lips, earthy and humid.

There is a knock at the door, loud and abrupt, and Bucky flinches away, on his feet and scrambling over the couch before Steve can catch his breath.  
Three more knocks, heavy enough to make the door tremble, has Steve rolling to his feet. He rubs his sleeve across his nose and goes to the door, pulling it open a crack and peering through.  
“Yes?” he mutters.  
There is a man and woman outside, both dressed in cheap but presentable suits. They have identical brittle smiles, identical clipboards.  
The woman speaks first, sharp and relentless. “Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to be a bother but we’re here on a matter of some urgency.”  
“Urgency?” Steve mutters dumbly.  
The man hands over a leaflet, on the cover is a smiling family. Steve tries to hand it back.  
“My mother was Catholic, I’m not interested.”  
The woman laughs politely. “We’re not from a religious organisation. We’re collecting signatures for the Like-for-Like campaign.”  
Steve frowns as the man takes over.  
“The Like-for-Like campaign is a grass root organisation that puts families first. We uphold strong the moral principles of every decent American.”  
Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “What?”  
“Surely you’ve seen our poster campaign?” The woman says. “We are lobbying the government for a full ban on human-hybrid relations.”  
The man nods. “As it stands the law is a grey area around these creatures, but we want clarity.”  
“In California humans can marry hybrids, can you believe that? It’s disgusting, and should be criminalised.” The woman smiles like reprehensible words aren’t falling from her mouth.  
“Of course we understand that, in some circumstances, they are useful. The military, drug research, cosmetic testing.”  
“...What?” Steve feels like he’s going to throw up.  
“But ultimately-”  
“Fuck off,” Steve snarls and slams the door.

He sinks to the floor and puts his head between his knees until the urge to vomit passes.  
He hears rather than sees Bucky pad across the floor and crouch in front of him. There is a moment of hesitation before Bucky gently strokes a hand through his short blond hair.  
Steve sniffs. “‘M okay,” he mumbles.  
Bucky ignores the lie, curling around him. Both arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in, and Steve lets himself be cradled in someone's arms for the first time since his ma died. He reaches up and tangles his fingers in Bucky’s hair, stroking the soft fur of his ears.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers into Bucky’s shoulder.  
Bucky squeezes a little harder. “Ain’t you.”  
They cling to each other, and the fear that had coursed through Steve’s veins hardens into anger.  
“You wanna get a diploma? Show those fuckers?” he runs a fingertip along the chain around Bucky’s neck. “Go to college, become a… an astrophysicist or an astronaut or something. First hybrid in space, that’d show them.”  
Bucky snorts and tightens his grip.

_Despite being, genetically speaking, virtually identical to humans, Hybrid sexuality has long been a complex and divisive issue.  
Folklore and Anthropology remind us that humans and hybrids have copulated throughout history; the untamed sexual desires of the werewolf, The Greek Gods consorting with young women in animal form, the Shunga of the Japanese Edo period.  
In more recent times we have seen expressions of Hybrid sexualisation with the anthropomorphic foxes in Disney's Robin Hood, the marriage of Roger and Jessica Rabbit and the Japanese phenomenon of Hello Kitty, to name but a few.  
Despite numerous instances throughout history of human/hybrid relations being stable and loving and the resulting progeny unaffected by their parentage, the present-day Christian right has been at the forefront of an intense backlash against hybrid/human relationships, with organisations such as the UK based Human Party and the Like-For-Like campaign in the USA pushing for the criminalisation and incarceration of hybrids and anyone engaging with hybrids.  
Hybrid Sex and Sexuality  
A History of Hybrids by Dr Bruce Banner  
International Journal of Sociology and Anthropology_

Steve glares at the canvases spread over the couch. And the ones wobbling on the coffee table. Bucky crouches amongst the half dozen spread out on the floor, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. He points to one of the paintings, a clear night sky over Coney Island, the lights a riotous blur of colour against an inky backdrop.  
“You think?” Steve chews on his thumb.  
Bucky nods and picks the painting up, adding it to the stack of chosen pieces. Steve points to a work on the couch, a portrait of Luis behind the counter in his bodega, reaching up for an item on a high shelf with a litter picker, the shelves around him packed with gaudy boxes and packages. Bucky nods and adds it to the pile.  
Steve hesitates and points to one last piece, watching Bucky carefully.  
In some ways he doesn’t want to part with it, the portrait of Bucky curled up on the couch with a book in his lap. One elbow is resting on the arm of the couch, his cheek against his loosely curled fist, deeply engrossed in what he’s reading. His ears are pricked forward as if he can hear the words on the page if he strains hard enough, his tail is curled around his drawn up bare feet.  
It’s a clear statement, Steve knows that. But it’s also not him making it.  
“Are you okay with this one going out?” he asks.  
Bucky chews his lip, and for a minute Steve thinks the answer will be no, but Bucky picks up the canvas and adds it to the pile. He fetches the soft canvas case and starts packing them up carefully.  
“Are you sure?” Steve presses.  
Bucky zips up the case. “Yes,” he answers, his voice a low rumble.  
“Really?”  
Bucky gives him a glare and starts picking up the remaining canvases, stacking them neatly against the wall, and Steve throws up his hands in defeat.  
He pulls on his shoes, leaving off a jacket in the early summer warmth. Bucky slips on his trainers picks up the case, waving to the door. “C’mon, we’ll be late.”  
Steve grabs his wallet and keys, and hurries after him.

The Black Widow is an art boutique is the other side of Brooklyn, at the kale chip and chia pudding end of the borough. An art gallery/store with a carefully cultivated shabby chic style and an owner who scares the bejesus out of Steve, but she loves his paintings and they seem to be selling well.  
They take the bus rather than heft the paintings across the city, and the sky is overcast and threatening.  
Bucky sitting by the window with his nose pressed to the window, his ears twitching as the first fat raindrops hit the glass.  
Steve slumps down in his seat and rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky turns from the window long enough to give him a lopsided little smile and wrap his arm around Steve’s shoulder before turning back to watch the city go by.  
Steve doesn’t realise that he has dozed off until Bucky is gently shaking him. He rubs the sleep dust from his eyes and gets up from his seat, Bucky following after and picking up the case from the baggage drop at the front of the bus.

It’s a short walk to the boutique, hurrying through the summer storm. Despite all of Steve’s bluster over gentrification and the loss of the Brooklyn he grew up with, he likes the place. No one scowls at Bucky, or yells at him, or gives them funny looks when they stand too close together. No one really does that sort of thing in their neighbourhood though, Luis would beat the living daylights out of them.  
Steve figures he’s never going to be comfortable with a place that can’t just call itself a store as Bucky holds the door open. Steve slips inside and weaves his way through the sculptures and display cases to the desk in the corner, where one of the innumerable girls who work for Natasha is making a model dog out of a lump of plasticine. She looks up at Steve’s approach, and her gaze slides right past him to Bucky.  
“Oh my god!” she shrieks. “Hey! What are you? Are you, like a ferret or something?”  
Bucky gives her a murderous glare, and Steve takes a side step until he’s blocking the girls view.  
“I’m here to see Ms Romanov? She’s expecting me.”  
“Uh, yeah. She’ll be here in a minute,” the girl cranes her neck to get another look. “Look at your fuzzy little ears!”  
Steve silently takes back every good thing he’s ever thought about the place as the girl leans over the desk.  
“Can I pet him?” she asks, already stretching out a hand.  
“Well no, he’s a service…” Steve hesitates. The word ‘animal’ sticks in his throat. “He’s working.”  
The girl kicks up such a fuss that Bucky shuffles forward and bows his head low enough for her to touch his ears. She squeals and gives one ear a light touch, and Steve has to fight the urge to smack her hand away. Bucky pulls back after a few seconds, despite the girls complaints, and shuffles to a safe distance behind Steve. He rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder, letting out a soft little hum when Steve scratches him behind the ear.  
“You guys are so cute,” the girl announces, and Steve doesn’t correct her.

“That’s enough, Darcy,” a familiar voice calls out, and Steve turns to see Natasha come into the store.  
She’s a little taller than Steve, with a dry wit and red curls that seem to defy the laws of physics. She give Steve a hug before leading them both to her office upstairs, a sparsely decorated room in contrast to the elegant clutter of her store.  
Bucky pushes Steve into a seat while Natasha calls down to Darcy for some coffee, and sets the case on her desk. He takes out each painting and arranges them around the room, shushing Steve when he starts to fret.  
By the time Natasha has returned with three cups of coffee, the pictures have been rearranged half a dozen time, though Steve grudgingly admits that Bucky had been right the first time.  
They sit at the desk drinking their coffees while Natasha circles the room, studying each painting carefully. She stops in front of the portrait of Bucky and stares at it for a long time before turning to Steve.  
“An interesting choice,” she says slowly.  
Steve shrugs and fidgets with his coffee cup.  
“Personal,” she adds.  
Steve nods and bites his lip.  
Natasha smirks at him. “I’ll take them all.”  
Steve nearly falls out of his seat. “Really?!”  
Natasha coughs out a laugh. “Don’t look so shocked,” she points to the Coney Island piece. “Your works have a certain nostalgia to them, a sense of longing.”  
Steve flushes and pays close attention to his shoes. “Thank you,” he mumbles.  
Natasha turns back to the portrait of Bucky. “I’d like to keep this one,” she murmurs, a finger to her lips. “I’ll pay for it of course. I think it would be good to have on permanent display.” She turns to Bucky. “Would you have any issue with that?”  
Bucky’s eyes flick to Steve, who gives him a reassuring look. “Okay,” he rumbles.  
“Thank you.”  
Natasha takes a seat behind the desk and opens up her laptop. Steve fidgets while she opens up her account software until Bucky reaches over and takes his hand, threading their fingers together.  
“Do you want a bank transfer or cheque?” Natasha asks as she sends an itemised receipt to Steve’s email.  
“Uh,” Steve shrugs. “Transfer?” his phone pings with an email notification, and he tugs it out of his pocket to read the message. When he sees the invoice total he drops his phone, and Bucky bends down to pick it up.  
“Whoops,” Steve mumbles as Bucky hands the phone over.  
Natasha taps a few more keys. “And… Done.”  
Bucky folds up the canvas bag while Steve shakes Natashas hand, nodding as she promises to be in touch again soon. They say their goodbyes and head downstairs to the store, Bucky keeping a wary distance from Darcy, and out onto the street.  
The storm is easing off to a steady drizzle, and they hurry down the street, dashing from awning to awning as they try to keep dry.  
“A lot of money,” Steve mutters under his breath.  
Bucky chuckles and gives him a gentle shove.  
“Ow,” Steve grouses, and shoves him back. “C’mon, we can celebrate by eating something that isn’t noodles.” He points to a store down the road that proclaims to be both fresh and wild.

The store is nothing like Luis’ little bodega, and Steve isn’t entirely sure that half of the stuff for sale is even food.  
He pokes at the bottles of viscous green liquid in the chiller. “Is there anything here that ain’t made of kale?”  
Bucky snorts and taps him on the hip with the empty shopping basket. “Wheatgrass.”  
Steve looks a little more closely at the label. “Huh. So it is.”  
They wander along the aisles, jostling each other.  
“What d’you think, Buck?” Steve holds up a frozen pizza. “It’s made of cauliflower.”  
Bucky snorts and puts the pizza back in the frozen food section.  
“Yeah, maybe we should go someplace else.”  
“Steve?” A voice calls out behind them. “Steve Rogers?”  
They turn around to see a man in a suit that cost more than a month's rent on the apartment. Hell, six months. He pulls the frames of his blue tinted sunglasses down his nose and gives Steve an appraising look.  
“It is you, how you doin’ Steve?” he shoves the glasses back up his nose.  
“Hey, Tony,” Steve murmurs. “What’re you doing here? I didn’t think you shopped.”  
Tony grins. “Throwing a party.” He glances at Bucky. “What’re you supposed to be? A stoat?” he clicks his fingers. “Red Panda! No? That’s a hell of a murder stare, little fella.” He glances at Steve. “It’s been vaccinated, right? I’m not gonna get rabies or something.”  
Steve sighs. “No, you’re not going to get rabies.”  
Tony notices the tag. “Is _this_ supposed to be a Service Animal? Seriously? Steve, couldn’t you afford a species? You should’ve called me, my buddy Rhodey is in Special Forces, got access to the top Service breeds. You want an Alsatian? Loyal, well trained.” He snaps his fingers. “No, a husky. They’ve got some stunning colouration.”  
“I’m fine with Bucky,” Steve says through gritted teeth.  
Tony throws an arm around his shoulder, ignoring Bucky’s low growl. “Seriously though, if canids aren’t your thing what about a lion? A tiger? I heard there’s a panther kicking around too, though I think it’s a king or a deity or something.” He glances at Bucky. “Settle down there Rocky, we’re old friends.”  
“Bucky,” Steve mutters as Tony drags him down one of the aisles, Bucky sloping after them.  
“I’ve gotta tell you Steve, I love the piece you did for Stark Tower. The tones, the juxtapositions, stunning. I was thinking it needs a companion piece, what say you come over to my place, we’ll get a bite to eat and, y’know,” he grins. “Talk.”  
Steve eases out from under Tony’s arm and looks around for Bucky, hovering a short distance away department.  
“I thought you said you were having a party,” he murmurs, trying to get Bucky to come join them. Bucky doesn’t look at him, just stands stock still, his ears flat against his head.  
“We’ll have the party at my place,” Tony places a hand between Steve’s shoulders. “What d’you say?”  
“Tony,” Steve rubs the back of his head.  
“Come on. You, me, a bottle of wine?” he offers a winning smile. “See where the night takes us.”  
“Tony,” Steve ducks his head. “Thanks for the offer, but some other time.”

He slips out of Tony’s arms and walks back over to where Bucky is stood, staring at a poster taped up on the wall.  
_Like for Like_ it reads in bold, black letters.  
Steve sighs and tucks his hand in the crook of Bucky’s elbow. “C’mon, let’s go home. We’ll get a pizza or something.”  
Bucky doesn’t respond, but goes with him, dragging his feet as they make their way to the exit. There is another poster by the doors.  
“He likes you,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and hesitant.  
“What, Tony?” Steve glances behind them and see’s Tony wandering around the store with a bag of kale chips. “Yeah, I guess.”  
Bucky follows his gaze, his mouth pulled down. “You like him.”  
It’s not a question.  
Steve shrugs. “I guess? I don’t know.”  
Bucky nods, and seems to come to a decision. He puts his hands on Steve’s shoulders and gently turns him around.  
“Buck, what-” Bucky gives him a shove. Away. Towards where Tony is perusing the overpriced dried fruit.  
Steve turns back, and Bucky firmly turns him around again, giving him another push.  
“Go,” he says softly, not meeting Steve’s eyes.  
Steve’s heart gives a single, painful kick. His stomach clenches, and he can’t breathe.  
“Bucky, what are you playing at,” he whimpers.  
Bucky shrugs and kicks his heels, and Steve hates the way his ears press down, the way his tail hangs limply.  
Steve suddenly doesn’t want to be in this stupid, overpriced excuse for a store. He wants to go home, curl up together on the couch and eat cheap, shitty noodles. He wants to fall asleep with his head on Bucky’s shoulder.  
“Alright, fine. I’ll go talk to him.” Steve sighs. “Wait here, okay?”  
Bucky nods, and Steve walks across the shop floor, pausing to glance back at Bucky, his shoulders hunched, his arms wrapped around himself.

“Tony?” Steve calls.  
Tony looks up and flashes a bleached smile. His teeth flat and even. “Steve! So I’m thinking Korean. I know this great place over on -”  
“I’m not having dinner with you,” Steve tells him quickly. “But if you’re interested in a companion piece for Stark Tower, maybe we can arrange a meeting? You know, during office hours.”  
Tony’s smile doesn’t even slip. “Great. I’ll have my people call your people.”  
“I don’t have people, it’s just me and Buck.”  
Tony shrugs. “Offer still stands if you want a replacement.”  
Steve shakes his head. “No one else I’d ever want.” He nods decisively. “See you, Tony. Enjoy your party.”  
He ducks his head and turns away before Tony can make another remark, walking back to the store entrance.  
Bucky is gone.

“Excuse me,” Steve calls out to the woman walking past, dodging her umbrella. “I’m looking for my friend, have you seen him?”  
He holds up his phone, and the woman peers at the picture of Bucky. He’s leaning against the bus shelter, legs crossed at the ankle. His ears are askance, giving the camera an incredulous look. Steve had already been planning the painting he’d make of it.  
The woman shakes her head, and Steve mutters a hurried thank you before moving on.  
Some of the people he approaches ignore him, shove past him and keep walking. He can’t blame them, soaked to the skin and half panicked, but he keeps asking.  
By the time he reaches older man with a salt and pepper beard, he’s about ready to scream. The man takes off his glasses to study the picture, and Steve wants to shake him. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper.  
“Yes. Racoon. Tall?” the man says finally, his voice heavily accented. He holds a hand up a little over his own height.  
“Yes,” Steve says breathlessly.  
He points down the street. “I saw a racoon in McCarren park a short while ago.”  
Steve doesn’t dare hope. “Do you know which way he was going?”  
“Nowhere, just there by the trees.”  
“Thank you,” Steve blurts out and starts running before the man can answer.

Steve finds Bucky curled up under one of the trees, one of the Like for Like posters torn into little pieces and scattered around him, slowly turning into paper mache in the rain.  
His heart twists, and he crouches down in the mud beside the sodden racoon.  
“Bucky?” he reaches out and presses his hand to Bucky’s shoulder.  
He flinches and looks up, scrubbing at his eyes, and Steve’s heart cracks.  
“Can we go home?” Steve asks, eyebrows drawn together.  
Bucky nods, rubbing his soaking sleeve across his nose and clambering to his feet. Steve takes him by the elbow and they shuffle through the rain and out onto the street.  
Steve’s shoes are soaked by the time they reach the bus stop, and Bucky is shivering hard. Steve presses up against him, trying to share body heat, and Bucky buries his nose in Steve’s hair, letting out low, frustrated huffs.  
The bus is cramped and humid when it arrives, and Steve manages to find them a seat together. Bucky loops his arms around Steve’s narrow waist, burrowing into his shoulder. His ears flicker restlessly, spraying droplets of water.  
Steve curls a hand around the nape of Buckys neck and, when he’s sure Bucky isn’t watching, gets his phone out of his pocket and opens the web browser.  
He searches through zoological articles, and lets himself hope.

When they reach the apartment Bucky is still subdued, his shoulders hunched, his ears flat, his tail like a dead weight. He’s still shivering, making the beads of water clinging to the tips of his ears tremble.  
Steve turns on the bathroom light and starts filling the bath. He checks that Bucky's heavy towelling robe is hanging on the the bathroom door before instructing him to get undressed.  
Bucky doesn’t answer, just starts stripping off his clothes, letting them land on the floor with dull, wet slaps. Steve bundles them up and puts them in the laundry in his room, shrugging out of his own soaked clothes and listening for the sounds of splashing as Bucky gets in the bath.  
He dries himself off and gets dressed, checking on Bucky, curled up in the bathtub, before taking the laundry down to the basement to battle the machines.  
He puts a load on to wash, watching the drum slowly fill and start to turn, his button up shirts twisting up with Bucky’s t-shirts.  
He’s being a coward.  
He squares his shoulders and walks back upstairs.

_Courtship is an important, but little studied aspect of racoon behaviour. Racoons will only mate if the potential partner allows it, and will chase away unwanted attention.  
Courtship itself is loud and boisterous, consisting of wrestling, mock-fighting, growling and biting, along with mutual grooming and stroking the partner's face or fur.  
Behavioural aspects of the Common Racoon (Procyon lotor)  
by Jane Foster_

Bucky is still in the bath when Steve returns. He grabs a towel from the rail and gives Bucky a splash.  
“C’mon, you’ll wrinkle up like a prune.”  
Bucky gives him a lopsided smile and flicks water at him, and Steve plucks up the courage to push his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tease out the tangles.  
Bucky makes a soft clicking sound and leans into his hand, and Steve brushes a thumb across his cheek, slow and tender. Bucky watches him carefully, then turns his head and nips lightly at Steve’s hand, at the mound of flesh at the base of his thumb.  
“Jerk,” Steve murmurs affectionately.  
Bucky flicks him with water again and Steve pulls his hand away, throwing the towel around his shoulders. “C’mon,” he says again, and walks out to the living room.

Steve sits on the couch and waits. He hears the sound of draining water, and Bucky appears in the doorway. wrapped in his robe.  
“C’mere,” Steve says and pats the couch cushion beside him.  
Bucky hesitates, his ears askance, but he pads over and climbs onto the couch, half kneeling, half crouching on the cushions.  
Steve holds up the towel in a silent offer, and Bucky lowers his head, letting out a soft purr as Steve towels his hair dry. Steve bundles up the towel and tosses it on the coffee table, leaning forward to run his fingers through Bucky’s hair, smoothing the loose strands off his forehead. He spends longer than is necessary tucking stray hairs behind his ears, trying not to blush as Bucky’s grin grows wider.  
“There,” he says finally. His fingers are shaking as he touches a thumb to the dimple in Bucky’s chin. “Still damned ugly though.”  
Bucky launches himself at Steve, knocking him flat onto the couch, and buries his face in the juncture between Steve’s neck and shoulder, tugging at his collar and taking deep, huffing breaths.  
“Easy,” Steve laughs, fumbling with his shirt buttons, popping them free so Bucky can press his nose to the sensitive skin below his ear and lick at the heavy pulse in his throat.  
Steve lets out a startled gasp as Bucky scrapes sharp teeth along his collarbone and slides warm, broad hands under his shirt, spreading fingers across his stomach.  
“Buck,” Steve whines, tilting his head down and reaching up to grab a handful of Bucky’s hair, messing up his efforts as Bucky takes pity on him and presses their mouths together in a hard, bruising kiss.  
Bucky sucks on his lower lip and withdraws, his kisses brief and brutal as he darts in and retreats, teeth and tongue and not enough. Steve twists fingers in his hair and pulls. He wraps his free arm around Bucky’s neck and holds on until he finally gets the message and sinks into Steve’s embrace. Bucky brushes their noses together, brief and tender before licking into Steve’s mouth, filthy and urgent and desperately sweet.

Bucky pulls away far too soon and Steve grumbles as he sits up, tugging at Steve’s shirt and pulling it over his head, buttons scattering. Bucky leans down to push his nose into Steve’s armpit, running his tongue over the dark blond hairs while Steve squirms and yelps. Bucky bites at his shoulder before swiping his tongue over a peaked nipple, taking it between his teeth until Steve kicks at him and soothing the sore nub with the flat of his tongue.  
Steve fumbles with the buttons on his pants as Bucky sucks bruises on his hip, finally working them open and kicking them off. Bucky mouths at the hard length under his briefs, soaking the cotton with passes of his tongue until Steve is keening and desperate. Bucky peels back the damp cloth, pushing the briefs down his hips and nosing at the exposed thatch of rusty blond curls.  
“Bucky,” Steve breathes, over and over, as Bucky wraps a hand around his cock and mouths at the head, swiping his tongue over the crown before closing his mouth around it and swallowing.  
Steve shudders and moans, hands grasping at Bucky’s shoulders as he sucks, slowly drawing up Steve’s length and pushing down again.  
Steve’s heart hammers painfully in his chest, his breath catching, and Bucky pulls off quickly. He presses a hand to Steve’s chest and counts his heartbeats while he wheezes, trying to control his breathing.  
“Sorry,” Steve babbles, his voice hitching. “Sorry.”  
Bucky crawls up the couch and shushes him. Curling around him, a hand on his throat. “Too much?” Bucky’s voice is a low, sweet rumble.  
Steve nods, trying to steady his breathing, and Bucky reaches over to the couch and grabs the spare inhaler, holding it up to Steve’s mouth and counting with him as he takes a dose, his hands shaking.

“I really screwed up, didn’t I?” Steve mumbles when he can breathe again.  
Bucky shushes him, pressing soft, feathery kisses along his jaw. “Slow,” he breathes as he reaches Steve’s lips, catching them between his own.  
Steve lets himself be eased into the kiss, slow and tender. Bucky flicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, across his teeth, curling around his tongue. Lazy and lingering while Bucky’s hands trail across his stomach, stroking up the length of his cock and rubbing small circles around the crown.  
Steve pushes his hand under the folds of towelling robe and wraps his fingers around Bucky, hot and hard and leaking. It makes his breath catch in his throat, sweet and shocking, the evidence of his desire, thick and heavy in his hand.  
Bucky whines, sharp teeth pricking at Steve’s tongue, hips stuttering as Steve circles his fingers and draws them along his length, rubbing his thumb over the crown. Bucky lets out a soft clicking and thrusts into Steve’s fist, tongue between his teeth.  
He stops and gently pulls Steve’s hand away, rolling on top of him, taking his weight on his elbows and pressing their bodies together.  
Steve lets out a gasp as Bucky lines up their bodies and presses their cocks together, giving his hips an experimental twitch. Steve lets out a garbled noise and buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder, clinging to his arms as the thrusts again and again.  
“Good?” Bucky noses at Steve’s ear.  
“Yes!” Steve chokes out. “Good. Yes. Keep doing that.”  
Bucky snorts and rolls his hips, grinding their cocks together and Steve bites into the meat of his shoulder in retaliation. Bucky laughs and sucks on his earlobe, taking it between his teeth and tugging gently. Steve moans and tips his head back, shudders and comes. 

Bucky shifts to one side and wraps a hand around his cock, and in a moment comes, spilling over his fingers. He presses up against Steve, tongue lapping at the beads of sweat gathered along his clavicle while Steve curls fingers in his hair, stroking at the soft fur of his ears. He fumbles for the towel and wipes off his stomach, squirming half-heartedly as Bucky licks the last traces of come off his stomach, flicking his tongue over Steve’s spent cock.  
“Ow, sensitive,” Steve flinches.  
Bucky murmurs an apology and climbs off the couch, robe still hanging from his shoulders, and gestures for Steve to get up. He grizzles, kicking his briefs the rest of the way down and onto the floor.  
“Up,” Bucky prods him. “Bad for your back.”  
When Steve doesn’t get up, Bucky reaches down and tucks one arm under his knees, the other across his back, and lifts him up in one swift movement.  
He puts up a token fight before wrapping both arms around Buckys neck and letting him carry him to the bedroom, dropping him onto the covers before tumbling after, digging fingers into his armpits and tickling until he squeals.

“Buck, quit moving,” Steve mutters, turning the page of his sketchbook and smoothing down the clean blank sheet.  
Bucky looks up from his position at the head of the bed, propped up on pillows with a laptop resting on his stretched legs, coursework spread out over the covers. He flicks an ear irritably.  
“Ain’t moved,” he mutters, tapping at the keyboard.  
“You did!” Steve insists. “You moved your leg.” He bows his head and starts sketching, outlining the tilt of Bucky’s head, the quirk of his ear.  
“Hmm well, draw faster,” Bucky counters with a grin.  
Steve follows the line of his shoulder, the strap of his vest, the St Christopher at his throat.  
He purses his mouth and looks up, watching Bucky work.  
“Are you sure about this, Buck?”  
Without even glancing up, Bucky picks up his copy of Introduction to Psychology and throws it at Steve’s head. He catches it and flicks through the pages before setting it to one side.  
“You’re not just doing it because of me, are you?” Bucky snorts. “I’m serious. You could be doing anything and you pick Nursing? Not Astrophysics or… I don’t know.”  
Bucky closes the laptop with a snap and puts it to one side, gathering up all his papers and stacking them neatly on the top.  
“I mean, I know they already have a Prussian Blue working in Pediatrics, and that’s great, it really is. But you could be doing anything, y’know?”  
Bucky crooks a finger, beckoning Steve closer. He puts down his sketchbook and crawls across the bed, curling up in Bucky’s arms.  
“I want this,” Bucky says slowly, trailing his fingers along Steve’s arms.  
“You sure?”  
“I’m sure.”  
Steve tucks his head under Bucky’s chin. “You’ll be great at it, you know. You’re really good at taking care of me.”  
Bucky shakes his head. “That’s different.” He pokes Steve in the ribs.  
“Can I paint you in your scrubs?” Bucky nods, brushing his fingers across Steve’s cheek. “And you’re sure this is what you want?”  
Bucky tightens his grip around Steve and play-bites his arm, taking a fold of shirt between his teeth and tugging. Steve pinches him in retaliation and gets flipped onto his back. Bucky pushes up his shirt and swipes his tongue across Steve’s navel. He squirms and shoves him away, but Bucky perseveres, unfastening the shirt buttons one by one and kissing the skin exposed.  
“You know I love you, right?” Steve traces along the line of Bucky’s shoulders.  
He huffs in response. “Can smell it. Can taste it on your skin.” He flicks his tongue across a pebbled nipple. Steve lets out a low moan, threading fingers through Bucky’s hair as the last button comes loose. He can’t smell it. He can’t taste it, but he feels it in the tingle under his skin, in the lines on a page, in the tongue pressed to his teeth.  
He pokes Bucky in the ribs, hard enough to make him yelp. Bucky play-bites his jaw, teeth scraping against stubble, and kisses him again and again.


End file.
